Chapter 17
MARI
We don’t talk on the ride back. Lev sits next to me in the SUV, his knee bouncing the whole way. His phone lies facedown on his thigh, like he’s forcing himself not to touch it. Yuri rides up front. No one says a word. I watch the buildings slide by and try to keep my breathing steady.
This could be bad. Catastrophic, even. I can’t read Lev at all right now, and it’s freaking me out. He said he wasn’t angry with me for keeping the pregnancy from him, but even that doesn’t stop the anxiety climbing in my chest. The tension in the car is palpable.
When we pull up to our building, the garage gate lifts. No one says a word as the driver pulls into a spot and we climb out. Lev, Yuri, and I take the private elevator up to the penthouse. As soon as we step inside, Yuri and Lev exchange a look.
Yuri nods and speaks into his comm, alerting the security staff, then disappears from the living room with his usual quiet grace. Lev steps farther into the living room and turns to face me.
“We have a lot to discuss,” he says.
“We do.”
I set my bag on the coffee table and sit on the couch, bracing myself for war.
He stands in front of me, his hands on his hips.
He looks me over like he’s checking for obvious damage.
Then he sighs and sits down on the opposite end of the couch.
He folds his hands in his lap and leans toward me.
Every hair on my body stands at attention as I wait for his reaction.
“How far along are you?” he asks.
It’s an easy enough question.
“Six weeks.” I shrug. “Maybe seven. My bloodwork will confirm the exact date.”
He just nods, stands, and goes to the wet bar to pour himself a drink. He doesn’t say anything as he pours brown liquor. He looks up at me like he’s about to ask if I want one, then remembers that I’m pregnant and stops himself.
“It’s yours,” I say into the long silence, unable to stop myself. “I haven’t been with anyone besides you since we started… whatever this is.” I gesture lamely between us.
“I wasn’t going to ask,” he says.
“I know you weren’t,” I say, realizing how endearing that is. “I just wanted to make sure that was clear.”
“I don’t need you to,” he says, almost offended now. “I don’t doubt your intentions, Mari.”
“I don’t know what you’d question anymore,” I say honestly. “You have me followed twenty-four hours a day. You’ve had me locked up like a princess in a tower for weeks.”
I sigh and look around the living room, reminding myself it’s still a prison. Nothing about that has changed. But he’s a little warmer now, at least, and this secret isn’t hanging around my neck like an albatross.
“All of that has been for your protection.”
“As you’ve stated over and over.”
He sits back down with his drink and takes a long sip, considering all of this. I still have no idea what he’s thinking. His reaction so far has already been so different from what I would have expected from him. We are in truly uncharted waters, and I feel like I’m drowning.
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” I can’t help but ask, feeling strangely bare in front of him.
He nods once, resets, and his tone becomes much gentler. “What do you need?” he asks.
I’m so taken aback by the question that I can’t even answer at first. I actually have to think about it for a second. What do I need?
“I don’t know yet,” I finally admit. “It’s all really new.”
“Are you sick? Nauseous? Dizzy? Are you having headaches?” He scoots closer. “Any strange cravings?”
I can’t help but laugh at his hovering. For once, it doesn’t feel like an overreaction. I’m literally growing a baby in my body, and the sincere look in his eye tells me he’s considering that too. It’s a little magical, and completely overwhelming.
“I’m okay right now,” I tell him honestly, still touched by his thoughtfulness. “I have everything I need for the moment.”
“Well, if and when that changes, just tell me. I’ll make sure all your needs are taken care of,” he says firmly. “And you’ll be working from home from now on.”
I stop short at this.
“What? Why?” I can’t help the edge in my voice. This is so typical of him.
“Given your current condition, it’s for the best,” he answers, taking another long sip of his drink as if he’s trying to calm himself.
“I’m not fragile, Lev,” I argue. “I can go to the office every day and work. It’s not like it’s a physically taxing job. Plenty of pregnant women go into the office every day all around the world.”
“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he says with a sigh, as if he’s already gearing up for an argument. “And I’m not worried about you overdoing it at work. But you are carrying my heir and that makes you an even bigger target. I’ll keep the two of you safe no matter what it takes.”
His words land like a heavy weight. I can only stare at him in disbelief.
“It’s a six-week-old embryo,” I say, starting to feel a little sick. “I think calling it your heir is a little much right now.”
“That’s what it is to my world,” he says. “That baby is the most important thing to my future. And my enemies would feel the same. They wanted you as leverage before. Now they’ll want you and the baby dead.”
The room goes quiet. For a second I can’t get my lungs to work. Hearing it put that way makes my skin go cold.
“Stop,” I say.
“You need the full picture,” he replies flatly. “This increases the risk tenfold. We’ll have to crack down even more on your security detail.”
“No, seriously,” I say, standing up and holding my stomach. “I can’t hear this.”
“You need to hear this,” he says, standing up and looming over me. “You need to understand how serious the danger is for both of you. If you couldn’t believe that about yourself, at least believe it about our child.”
My stomach flips. Heat hits my throat. I turn and head for the hall.
“Mari?” he asks sharply.
I make it to the bathroom, drop to my knees, and retch. It’s violent and fast and leaves me shaky. I sit back, press a hand to my belly, and breathe, the tile cold against my knees. Lev hovers in the doorway, one hand on the frame like he’s bracing himself.
“Should I call a doctor?” he asks, sounding a little panicked.
“No.” I swallow and let out a sarcastic laugh. “This is pretty standard for a pregnant woman. You don’t need to call a doctor every time I throw up.”
“Nothing about this is standard,” he says.
He wets a washcloth, kneels, and uses it to wipe my forehead. It feels unbelievably good. I didn’t realize until this moment how hot my skin had gotten. This apartment, as big as it is, is starting to feel claustrophobic.
“What can I do?” he asks softly. “Do you need medicine? Water? I’ll go get you water.”
Before I can protest, he’s gone. He comes back a minute later with a cold bottle of water. I take it gratefully and take sips, feeling the chill of the water move through my body. All the while, he watches me carefully, concerned about what will happen next.
“I’m okay,” I tell him truthfully. “It passed.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
“That’s going to happen a lot, huh?” he asks, wincing.
“Pretty much every day for the next couple months.” I shrug. “At least from what I’ve read. Everyone’s different.”
“I don’t like it,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m worried about you. I’m taking you to bed.”
“Lev,” I groan. “Pregnant women throw up. I’m fine!”
“But not all pregnant women throw up after being told their lives are in imminent danger,” he shoots back. “You could be in shock. You need to rest.”
He crouches down next to me, sliding one arm under my knees and another around my waist. It takes me a second to understand what’s happening when he lifts me easily off the ground, as if I weigh nothing.
“Lev!” I yell, thrashing against his embrace. “Put me down, I can walk!”
“I know you can,” he answers with a satisfied smirk. “But you don’t like doing anything I say, so I figure why give you the chance to argue? I’m taking you to bed.”
I don’t have the energy to fight him, so I put my arms around his neck to steady myself. He carries me to his bedroom and turns down the duvet. I sit. He covers me, then steps half a step back and studies my face again.
“I’m sending up some food,” he says. “Whatever you want.”
“I’m not hungry,” I try to argue, although my stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. I realize that it’s already dinnertime and lunch was a long time ago. Still, I hate when he’s right, and he seems to always be right.
“I’m trying to remember what pregnant women can’t eat,” he says, tapping his chin in intense thought. “No cold cuts, right? And no fish.”
“My two favorite food groups,” I joke.
“Nice try,” he says sternly. “I can have the cook make you some soup, or . . .”
“I’m really craving tamales,” I tell him, my mouth suddenly watering. “My grandma used to make a big batch and then freeze them. Any time I was sick, she would heat a couple up and serve them with pozole.”
“I literally don’t know what either of those things are,” he says, looking completely out of his depth and desperate.
I’ve never seen him like this, and I’m enjoying it.
“She also used to rub my back and sing a Spanish lullaby,” I say, making myself look extra pathetic. “It’s so easy, it goes like this.”
I sing the very complicated lullaby to him, with words I know he would never be able to pronounce without a tutor. The helpless look on his face is just too good to pass up.
“She also used to lather me in vapor rub and have a priest come bless me,” I tell him with sad eyes.
The penny finally drops and his helpless expression turns cold. His eyes narrow and he frowns.
“The priest was a degree too far,” he says. “You almost had me. But I will have the cook make… what was it again?”
“Tamales and pozole,” I say pathetically, not ready to completely give up the act. “But seriously, Lev, they both take hours to make. You’d do better just to order them in.”
“Fine.” He shrugs, handing me his phone. “Order whatever you want and I’ll bring it to you.”
I stare at his phone like it’s a gold bar. This is unfettered access to his world, his lifeline, the keys to his entire empire. If I were cruel, I could really screw with him right now. But when I meet his eyes, I don’t miss the warning. It’s like he’s saying, “I trust you, but don’t push it.”
So, I don’t. I quickly order food from a local Mexican restaurant and hand his phone back to him without so much as snooping through his photos. Not that he strikes me as someone who takes a lot of photos.
He tells me to rest while we wait for the food, and I realize that I actually am exhausted. He leaves for a few minutes, and the next thing I know, he’s shaking me gently awake, two huge bags of food on the nightstand next to him.
“I think you bought enough tamales to feed my entire workforce,” he jokes.
I smirk and sit up carefully. He pulls out a tray for me and hands me the bags.
I neatly arrange as many plates as will fit and watch smugly as his eyes go wide again.
It is a lot of food. I grab two forks out of one of the bags and hand him one, encouraging him to dig in too. He does without argument.
We eat together in companionable silence until we’re both stuffed. I don’t even feel insecure eating so much in front of him. I’m growing a baby inside me, after all. When we’re done, he clears away the tray and slides into the bed next to me, holding me until I fall asleep.